


Sui Generis

by pessimisticvirtuoso



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Depression, Don’t copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stangst, Teen Ford and Stan, This is a personal af fic, This time I torture Ford, Welcome to angst and acne forever, i may or may not have a problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pessimisticvirtuoso/pseuds/pessimisticvirtuoso
Summary: He was a freak. A mutant with intelligence, but destined to be nothing- Crampelter was right all along.This was his tool to cope, to feel something when feeling nothing, to chase away some of the harsher thoughts when they became too much.He was okay, though. He was. He just never thought he would be caught, is all.TW: Graphic depictions of self-harm and everything that comes with it.





	Sui Generis

Ford sighed through his nose as the bedroom door clicked shut, leaving him alone. The four walls of the shared room wrapped around him, making it seem like he existed in his own little bubble of solitude. His brother had just left for boxing lessons and wasn't due back for two hours. His parents were, oddly enough, on a date night down on the boardwalk. He thought it must be nice, having someone so invested in you that they'll be willing to spend that much time in your presence. He wouldn't know, of course, and figured he never would, not with the cards he'd been dealt. He'd be lucky if he got a word in at all with another person. They would take one look at him and immediately stay away. The few who stayed past that left after seeing his hands, calling him a mutant, a freak.

_They're not wrong. Your flaws aren't something you can fix, but rather they're just you. Your flaw, Stanford, is existing._

He shook his head tiredly, running a hand through his hair. He sat at his desk, surrounded by papers and textbooks. Originally, he had been working on his physics homework, but that quickly transitioned into reading his textbook for fun- homework never kept him occupied for more than six minutes, anyway. He reopened the textbook and gave a legitimate attempt to read it. After he read the same line four times without gleaning any meaning from it, though, he huffed irritably and shut the book. He stood and relocated to his bed, located opposite from Stan's- as they grew older, that cheap bunk bed couldn't support them anymore. He laid haphazardly across the maroon comforter, one leg touching the floor and the other on the bed. He tried to relax and he briefly considered turning in early. Stanley had been drifting farther and farther away from him, anyway, so he doubted that it would matter if he came home to find him asleep. He stayed there in indecision, and eventually just settled for closing his eyes and trying to meditate. He'd had a hard day, and his focus was shot.

Of course, his focus was just too shot today for that practice, and so he laid there immersed in thought.

_I have a physics test next Thursday, but I'm sure I've studied sufficiently to cover the material. I might just review some later anyway, it couldn't hurt. I wonder if Stanley's read up on and studied the material as well. It's highly probable that he hasn't, but he needs to. I need to talk to him about bringing his grades up more, otherwise, he won't pass this year. I'd probably have more time to convince him to study if he didn't actively seek Crampelter and his friends out after school to rough him up after they mess with me. I'll always patch him up afterward, though- how could I not? He's my twin. I just wish I had the nerve to tell him that they're right. I know he won't believe me if I bring it up, but I **am** a freak. I have intelligence, sure, but what else? My smarts are all I've got. They make me a little less useless, a little less worthless, and a little more valuable. Otherwise, I'm just some mutant, destined to be the twin of Charismatic Stanley. I don't do anything worthwhile other than that. I sit at home all the time unless Stan drags me somewhere- I'm a waste of space and money. I let down my parents and my brother every day that I'm alive. I'm weak, pathetic, and horrendously dependent, like some sort of parasite. Pa only keeps me around because of my financial potential and Ma never wanted me- she cherishes her 'free spirit Stanley' too much. I'm the unplanned one, the embarrassment. Stanley at least has the heart to be nice to me as if he doesn't resent me. I don't even have a personality. What use am I in the grand scheme of things?_

Ford stared at the ceiling vacantly, his crystal blue eyes stinging. He was... empty, but at the same time, it felt as if his chest was weighed down by a train. His mind, usually going a mile a minute, was foggy yet hypersensitive to his own miserable thoughts.

He didn't know how long he laid there, but it was long enough that he fell back into his mind. When he emerged yet again, he realized that the droplets that stubbornly refused to fall had left, slipping silently out of the corners of his eyes and wetting his hair. An overwhelming urge struck him then, and his eyebrows furrowed just slightly as he contemplated his next actions. The brunet glanced at the clock. He'd have enough time- Stanley wasn't due back for a little over an hour. Should he, though, was the question. 

He didn't know if he should- he never had, but he knew that he _will_ all the same.

Slowly, he propped himself up on one elbow before rising from the bed. He made a beeline for the desk, where he sat minutes before. His mind was calming down now, quieter than it was before. Distantly, he wondered if it was because he had resigned himself to this next task, or just because he was focused on something other than his thoughts again. Pulling out the third drawer revealed a stack of non-fiction books. Logically, it was the best place to keep his secret, since he knew his brother would never pick these up. He rifled through the stack of books until he came across a Carl Sagan publication. This book was one of three that still had the plastic jackets on it, and he flipped the back cover open, prying free an object taped to the underside of the sleeve. Ford gingerly held the pencil sharpener blade in his palm as he replaced his book. His face was neutral as he peeled the remaining tape off. The elder of the Stan twins shimmied out of his khakis and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them gracefully. He would never do this on his arms. He shared a room with someone, and for God's sake, he wasn't trying to get caught. He was just trying to cope.

Ford plopped down on the bed, only wearing a button up and boxers. He let out a heavy sigh, fiddling with the small piece of metal. A dark frown settled over his face as he ran the pad of his thumb across the flatness of the blade, the print marks catching on the small hole in the middle.

He pushed the right side hem of his boxers up, bunching it around his hip. Scars littered his upper thigh, some noticeable, some barely shimmering against the alabaster skin. A number of the previous injuries he inflicted on himself were so deep that the skin healed slightly depressed. Other marks were newer, standing out in an angry, deep red.

The silver was brought up to his skin, like many times before, and the sixteen-year-old had no hesitation when it came to dragging it across himself, adding another wound to the indeterminate number on his thigh. A sharp, thrilling pain radiated from the cut, and Ford hissed. His mind cleared just a little bit, breaking through the fog, but it wasn't enough. He still couldn't focus, and he still felt _awful._ Again and again did metal and skin meet, slow at first then furiously quick, each strike leaving a weeping, crimson trail. Some cuts crossed over old scars or tore open older ones- he didn't care. He wouldn't stop until everything felt okay again.

He was breathing hard when he _did_ stop, chest heaving from the state he'd worked himself into, and eyes leaking again from his pain, emotional and physical. His thigh was a mess of red, smeared slightly from the blade and starting to drip. He sighed irritably through his nose. Ford always got carried away with whatever he involved himself in, and this activity was no exception. 

He had just yanked a few sheets out of the box when the bedroom door banged open, accompanied by a loud, playful 'BOO!', and Stanley was there. He was home early. Ford jumped a foot in the air and hastily tried to press the tissues to his leg to hide his injuries, but he was too late. His twin had already seen, if the sharp intake of breath was anything to go by. 

Ford couldn't look him in the eye. He kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor, his hand still pressed against his leg. The white was rapidly being stained red, but he paid no attention to it. In his peripheral vision, he saw a pair of rust-colored boxing gloves hit the floor. His brother's black converse took a few steps toward him, hesitant on the carpet. The blue eyed boy screwed his eyes shut and forced down a desperate sob. He was terrified, angry, miserable, and a slew of other emotions that he couldn't name right this second. _Ashamed,_ his mind supplied, _shocked._

_You're at fault. You're the problem. Stanley probably hates you now. He came home to find his freaky brother hurting himself. How could he stand to look you in the face again after this? He could hardly bear having you as a sibling. Now you've made it worse, you idiot. You'll never amount to anything, you're just a disappointment-_

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. Ford's eyes flicked up and met Stan's warm brown ones. His brother had halfway knelt before him, his other hand resting on his upright knee. His eyes, normally sparkling with laughter or mischief, now swirled with confusion, hurt, and disbelief. His face was twisted with some emotion that he couldn't decipher.

"Ford?" 

His voice was quiet, scared. Ford shook his head and trembled softly. He didn't know what to do. What was anyone supposed to do in this situation? A weak, pitiful noise crawled its way out of his chest. Stan's eyebrows furrowed further, and Ford thought it was out of anger rather than worry.

"Ford, let me see," he pressed, voice pitched low and soothing. Gently, he grabbed Ford's wrist and moved it away from his thigh. The elder of the two let him- what use was there in fighting? He already knew, he already saw. It was too late. The tissues were completely soaked through, and Ford's fingers were stained red with his blood. Like every other action he took, Stan was gentle when he wiped a good bit of it off with a fresh tissue. Pausing at the layer of now-sticky fluid covering his brother's hand, he stood and left the room. 

He reappeared a minute later with wet paper towels and the first-aid kit from the bathroom. He knelt in front of his brother again and handed him one of the wet towels. Numbly, Ford cleaned his hands and held onto the the tissue even after he was done. He remained silent as his brother peeled away the wad of red on his leg, noticing the way Stan turned white when it dripped.

He couldn't bear to pay much attention to his brother's ministrations after that- except for the quiet gasp that his brother made at seeing the state of his leg, and the fierce burn of isopropyl alcohol. He knew that the instant he started concentrating on his situation would be the instant he couldn't hold himself back anymore. He didn't dare study his brother either, only daring to sneak a glimpse of his concentrated, upset face as he tended to his raw thigh. He's never witnessed Stan being this gentle, this quiet, not even when he comforted Ford after Crampelter hit too close to home. It was incredibly unnerving, but he couldn't find it in himself to comment on it. He didn't think he would've chosen to do so even if he _had_ plucked up the courage.

A tap on his whitened knuckles turned his attention away from his thoughts toward Stanley again. He had stood back up, and Ford stared at the white expanse of his chest. His brother's fist clenched and relaxed, but his voice was even when he spoke.

"Where is it? The blade," he clarified, reading Ford's knitted eyebrows as a sign of confusion. The scholar looked around confusedly before spying the bit of silver among the folds of the blanket and he handed it to his brother. The younger twin stared at it like he had dropped a white-hot coal into his hand. Hurriedly, he bundled it inside of a tissue and crammed it in his pocket.

He offered his hand again to Ford, who took it. They both stood, and Stanley leaned over to snatch a red bag off of the back of the desk chair. He rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out a blue bundle of slinky material. He passed it to Ford, who realized it was a pair of gym shorts. The elder gingerly slipped the shorts up over his hips, mindful of the new bandage on his thigh, and tugged his light green button-up off. Clad now in only a white undershirt and Stanley's shorts, he allowed his brother to guide him to the other bed in the room, a few feet away. 

The blue bedspread was soft, and it seemed to hug his entire body as he laid down. He let out a soft sigh as Stan threw away the mess of stained tissues and came to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. His posture was poor- he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, leaving his hands in the space between his parted legs. His head was hung and Ford watched as his jaw worked. He watched as his brother's lips pressed together, then parted as if he was going to speak, only to close back.

He observed his brother in this manner for a full minute before he couldn't stand the silence anymore. Silence, especially with Stanley so close and _conscious,_ was unnatural. He shifted.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the stillness. Stan's jaw worked one final time before he opened his mouth, and this time, the words he was thinking actually left him.

"What I want to know," he said, voice carefully monotone, "is why. _Why would you-_ "

He cut himself off with a deep inhale, trying to calm himself down. He hated how complex his emotions were being in that moment. His hand flew to his face, rubbing up from his eyes to his forehead, then back down again. The digits squeezed over and across his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. If Ford hadn't known any better, he would've claimed that Stan's fingertips came back damp.

But he definitely knew better. As the damning silence went on, Ford grew more uncomfortable. He'd always been socially awkward, but never with his twin, and so this lapse was nearly physically painful.

"I-"

"How long-"

Both twins spoke at the same time, and they established eye contact for a brief second. The older twin shut his mouth and concentrated solidly on the pattern on the ceiling, hands folded on his chest. Stan took that as a cue to continue. 

"How," he said, voice faltering, "how long have you been doing this to yourself, Stanford?"

Ford stared. How long _had_ it been? He didn't think he could give a definite, numerical answer. 

"Years. I couldn't truthfully tell you when it started, but I have a memory of doing this in eighth grade at the earliest."

Stan's hand dropped from his face to join the other in his lap. He took another breath in, this one hitching slightly. From the oblique profile view he had of Stan, Ford saw him bite his lip. If he hadn't grown up with him, he doubted he would have even noticed it. 

"That long, huh?" The question was softly spoken, and Ford was nearly just as quiet when he nodded and gave a noise of confirmation. Stan angled his head to look at him, and it felt like a jab to the chest when he saw the heartbreak gleaming in his brother's eyes. Stanley was always so vivacious, an easy grin curving his lips and a laugh leaving his throat every other minute. Seeing him so sad, so _broken_ over him was wrong.

Stanley being this upset was wrong.

This situation was wrong.

Everything was wrong. 

_He_ was wrong.

Isn't that what this whole episode boiled down to? He was wrong, yet again. He was bringing his brother down with his abhorrent behaviors and habits. He was just some freak of nature who couldn't healthily deal with the lumps life gave him, so he cut himself to ribbons. He upset the balance of anyone near him, like a thorn in everyone's side. He had no reason to stay here, everyone would be happier without him- 

"Hey," Stanley said softly. Ford broke out of his thoughts to find his brothers familiar, concerned face staring down at him. Belatedly, he realized he was quietly crying, his chest shuddering and breath hitching.

"Hey it's okay, don't cry," came that gravelly voice again, ever-so-soft and careful. Ford didn't respond as his twin cautiously pulled his glasses from his face. Stan reached backward to place them on his nightstand, and his heart broke all over again at the sight that greeted him when he leaned back onto the bed. Seeing his normally put-together brother crying so miserably inflicted so many negative emotions in Stan, enough to make his head nearly spin. If he were to compare this Ford to the one he left in the room a couple of hours ago, he wouldn't have thought they were the same person.

With a gentle tug on the front of his shirt, Ford brought his twin closer to him, burying his face in Stanley's solid collarbone. He didn't care how awkward the position was, he just needed someone to hug.

Stanley laid down, kicking his shoes off easily. The bowed position that Ford had pulled him into wasn't comfortable in the slightest. While Ford's hands were brought up in-between their chests, Stan easily wound his arms around the trembling frame of his brother. It hurt the younger Pines twin to see his best friend like this, somewhere deep in his chest that he couldn't locate. His eyes grew misty, and he tried to blink it away.

"He was r-right," Ford mumbled. Stan barely heard it among the hiccups and shaky bursts of breath.

"Who was?"

Ford continued on as if he hadn't heard, voice bending in pitched as he tried to speak past his misery.

"He was right, of course he was. How could he not be? It all makes sense, it always has. I-I'm no good," he said, pausing to swallow tearfully, "I'm just a freak. He was _right,_ I'm a _freak._ You'd be better off without me. I'm always holding you b-back from the things you want to do because you refuse to leave me behind-"

"Stanford," Stanley said firmly. Ford shut up immediately and he swore there was a glimmer of _fear_ in his brother's eyes. His heart had been growing heavier and heavier as the other spoke, and he couldn't stand to hear his twin talk about himself like that any longer.

"This isn't because of Crampelter and his goons, is it? They've been messing with you again?"

Ford's silence was the only answer he got, and it was the only answer he needed. Stan's eyes lit with a fire to match the devil's flames themselves, but it extinguished just as quickly when Ford clung to the front of his shirt tighter. He would have time to beat the everliving shit out of that asshole later, and Moses knew he would enjoy it.

Stan automatically held Ford tighter in response to both the gesture and the news he had just received. He couldn't help it- even though Stanford was technically older, Stanley was so protective of his twin. He supposed it was due to Ford's nature in the fact that he would never stand up for himself, and the fact that Stan loved him far too much to just sit idly by while the other was treated poorly.

Ford, who had started to quiet down when he was talking, started weeping again. He curled further into himself ever-so-slightly, and the hand not clutching Stan's shirt covered his mouth. His sounds weren't loud to begin with, but now all Stan heard from his brother were hitched breaths and low, little whines from the back of his throat that seemed to punch the younger brother in the gut.

"Shh," he soothed, gently rubbing circles on Ford's back. The body under his hand spasmed with the other's despair.

"You're none of those things, bro. You're worth so much to so many people, and you don't even realize it. You don't see how I'm nothing without you, how much value you have to me. You've never held me back from anything- in fact, I think it's the other way around. You're not just 'some freak', you're my brother. You mean the world to me."

"I-I just let Ma and Pa down all the time, I-"

"Let me give you the facts, Sixer. Nobody and nothing is ever going to impress Pa. Ma's plenty proud of you and so am I. You're not a letdown to any of the people who matter. You're not a failure, you're not worthless, you're not a screw-up, and you're not any of the other things that you think you are. You are Stanford Filbrick Pines, and nobody else. You're my brother and my best friend- and I'm lucky that you are. You're smart and kind and you're always helping me out, even when I irritate you," he said, his voice straining as a lump built in his throat. "You mean so much to me, Ford, I can't lose you."

The elder twin had stilled, focusing on Stan's words and the implications of the last few. The only movement from him was a hitch in his breathing, residual spasms left from his breakdown. He had nothing to say to that.

"Promise me," Stanley said, voice breaking. He sucked in a sharp breath, tears springing to his eyes unbidden. "Promise me you won't hurt yourself anymore, Ford. Look at me in the eyes and _promise me._ "

Stanford's blue eyes flicked up to meet Stan's. They were red-rimmed and puffy from crying, and his brother's chocolate eyes glittered with unshed tears. Ford would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel extremely guilty for making his tough-as-nails brother feel so bad.

"I promise that I'll try," he croaked. It would be extremely difficult, losing a crutch he had relied on for years of his life.

The moment that his twin's tears fell from his eyes was the moment that Ford's heart broke. Stan _never_ wept, not for anyone or anything- yet here he was, shedding tears over him. The younger shook with his cries soundlessly. The elder twin delicately wrapped his arms around his brother's midsection and buried his face in Stan's shoulder again. Not for the first time, he cried silently.

It was completely dark outside when their tears stopped. They held each other, neither wanting to break the silence that had slowly descended upon them. The air was heavy with unspoken words and while he really didn't want to upset his brother further, Stanley spoke anyway.

"Has it always been this bad?"

"It wasn't always this severe, no."

"There were at least forty," Stan said, his voice quiet.

"Mm, that sounds about right," was his brother's reply. His tone was resigned yet casual, and it just made Stan want to cry again. The conversation lulled. 

"Why did you come home so early?" At his question, the younger brother puffed out a breath through his nose- a mirthless laugh.

"Two of the kids got into a fight outside the ring, no gloves or gear. One of them got messed up real bad. They called an ambulance and Coach canceled practice."

"That's terrible," Ford said, a note of sympathy in his voice. Stan hummed in agreement, but he was also glad. He wouldn't have found out about this if it hadn't happened. Before the silence between them grew heavy, he spoke again.

"Why do you do it? I get that you don't have the best opinion of yourself, but what do you get out of... that?"

Ford seemed to still, despite hardly moving in the first place. His eyes stared forward, meeting his, but they seemed distant, clouded over. He blinked then, and Stan could see the moment that his brother tuned back into reality. His eyes focused and he breathed out a muted sigh.

"In the simplest form, it helps me think. It helps me realize that I can feel something other than numbness, sadness, or anger," he said. The next part was mumbled quieter. "I deserve it anyway, especially for all the times I've made you upset."

 _Like just now_ went unsaid, but both brothers could practically hear it in the tone of that last sentence. Stan made a noise in the back of his throat; not quite a whine, but it was definitely not a word.

"You don't deserve this Ford," he said, voice quietly urgent, soft but certain, "nobody does." His brother hummed noncommittally, and all he could do was hug him just a little bit tighter.

"If you feel like this again, will you call me? I'll help you through it, I swear. I just don't want this happening again."

Ford nodded wordlessly against his chest, and the relief that the other felt was something that couldn't properly be expressed with words. 

The silence returned, like a wolf creeping up on its prey. Stan found that it wasn't uncomfortable per se, but it wasn't all that easy to settle into, either. There was a peculiar tension in the air as if there was still something that they had left unsaid. For the life of him, Stan couldn't place it until Ford spoke up.

"I love you, Stanley." 

Stan's heart melted at the sincerity in his brother's voice.

"I love you too, Poindexter."

It was like a weight was lifted from their chests. Ford didn't have to hide such a big secret anymore, and Stan knew that Ford would find him if he felt this bad again. Both of the boys were immensely relieved, and they settled into the bed. They were content to just share the same space with each other- it felt natural. The atmosphere was calm and peaceful, as if nothing had upset the pair earlier.

Sleep came startlingly easy to them, despite them sharing a single-wide bed. After everything that afternoon, both of them separately came to the conclusion that they wouldn't have been able to fall asleep any other way. 

If the boys happened to be checked in on sometime later that night, well, Caryn Pines wasn't about to say anything about their sleeping arrangements.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my back-burner fic for about two months. It was mostly written as a vent piece, but then I realized it actually had some potential.
> 
> This fic is pretty personal to me, so I would appreciate it if I _didn't get hateful PMs about it._ I worked hard on it- the pre-written hard copy is 8.75 pages long.
> 
> Sui generis- Latin for 'unique' or 'one of its kind'
> 
> Please ignore any typing errors- I've re-read it five times, so I might scream if I did actually miss one.
> 
>  
> 
> -JAMS


End file.
